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LOVES  AND  LOSSES 
OF  PIERROT 


MR.  SHORES'  NEW  BOOKS 
Mrs.  Bobble's  Trained  Nurse 

.   By  George  Fox  Tucker. 

Friendship  and  Other  Poems 

By  B.  H.  Nadal. 

The  Valley  of  Lebanon 

By  Helen  S.  Wright. 

Melinda  and  Her  Sisters 

By  Mrs.  O.  H.  F.  Bclmont. 

The  Penny  Ante  Club 

By  Arthur   J.    Shores. 

Eat  Your  Way  to  Health 

By  Dr.  Robert  Hugh  Rose. 


LOVES  AND  LOSSES 
OF  PIERROT 


BY 
WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 


FRONTISPIECE  AND  DECORATIONS 

BY 

RODNEY  THOMSON 


1916 

ROBERT  J.  SHORES,  PUBLISHER 
NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1916,  by 

ROBERT  J.  SHORES,  PUBLISHER 

New  York 


SHORES    PRESS 
NEW    YORK 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Pierrette       .      .      .     .     •.      .      .      .      .      .    .      .  n 

Forest  Oracles       .     .      ....     -.      .    .      .  13 

Tryst       .      .      .      .      .      .      .      ,     -.     ....  14 

Pierrot  Gives  an  Accounting 16 

Pierrot  Puzzled *.-...  18 

Pierrot  in  Lodgings   .........  19 

Pierrot  the  Derelict   .........  21 

Pierrot  Appraises  His  Friends  .      .....  25 

Pierrot  Makes  a  Song       .........  27 

The  Stricken  Pierrot  .      .      .      .    '  „     -. " .    .   '  .  28 

The  Home-coming  of  Pierrette 29 

Pierrot  and  Pierrette  at  the  Window  .      .    .      .30 

The  Protest  of  Pierrot     .      .      .      .     .      .    .      .  31 

Pierrot  Serenades  Invisible  Verandahs     ...  32 

Enigma        .......     fc      ....  34 

Pierrot  Dispossessed 35 

Reconciliation 37 

Premonition      .      .      .      .      .     .            •.      ...  38 

Omen .     .      ...      ...  39 

Pierrot  Mourns  the  Death  of  Pierrette   ...  40 

Pierrette  in  Memory .    .      .42 

Pierrot  Writes  His  Epitaph       .      .      .      .    .      .43 


Happy  the  songs  of  Pierrot, 
If  she  but  heeds  them: 

Happy  for  him  to  know 
That  some  one  needs  them. 

Happy,  Pierrot,  that  a  sigh, 
In  words,  is  fleeting. — 

A  hi  he  would  treasure  most 
A  happy  greeting. 

Happy  is  he,  is  Pierrot, 
With  his  friends  near  him. 

Since  his  friends  have  to  go, 
Who  else  shall  hear  him? 

Happy,  if  softly  may  fall 

Upon  these  pages, 
Shadows  of  hands  that  clasp 

Across  the  ages. 


PIERRETTE 

ONCE  with  the  Graces 
Was  Jove  estranged, 
Weary  of  faces 

That  never  changed. 

Together  draping 

The  world  with  night, 
They  thought  of  shaping 

A  new  delight: 

Imagined  passion, 

And  dreamt  repose, — 
Something  to  fashion 

Out  of  a  rose. 

By  stars  forsaken 
Were  lakes  and  skies, 

Needed  and  taken 
To  make  her  eyes. 

In  their  researches, 
They  found  the  grace 

Of  silver  birches, 
To  match  her  face. 


Devoid  of  pity 
For  one  so  fair, 

They  chose  a  city, 
And  sent  her  there. 

In  garden-closes, 
The  perfume  yet 

And  grace  of  roses, 
Betray  Pierrette. 


[12] 


FOREST  ORACLES 

WVONNE,  Pierrette  and  Columbine 

Were  strolling  hand  in  hand: 
Debating  which  was  most  divine, 
The  robin  took  a  stand. 


Cock-sure  himself,  with  breast  afire, 

As  breasts  of  robins  are, 
He  chose  Yvonne,  whose  whole  desire 

Was  the  moth  for  the  star. 

The  barred-owl,  looking  very  wise, 

Chose  Columbine  to  fill 
The  forest  and  the  empty  skies 

With  her  warm  crimson  thrill. 

Pierrette,  of  roses  had  been  made, 

Of  moons  and  mystery; 
And  in  her  deep  blue  eyes  were  laid 

The  secrets  of  the  sea. 

The  ring-doves  balloted  by  rote, 
And  being  most  concerned, 

Chose  Pierrette,  on  a  rising  vote, 
And  joyously  adjourned. 


TRYST 

'"TpURNING  a  sudden  corner, 

•••     She  reached  the  trysting  place : 
The  gods,  grown  weary  of  the  sun, 
Put  twilight  in  her  face. 

Dreams,  swift  hopes,  rising,  falling,— 
Too  soon,  too  late,  too  soon, — 

Were  as  a  tide  that  rose  and  fell 
At  the  will  of  the  moon. 

Around  us  was  the  star  shine: 
Like  May  in  flowers  clad, 

Speaking  she  had  the  voice  of  brooks 
That  made  the  meadows  glad. 

She  spoke  of  the  great  wonder 
That  in  her  heart  was  laid, 

And  in  her  life  had  come  to  pass: 
Ah!  need  she  be  afraid? 

The  moon,  with  little  vision, 

Saw  what  was  going  on, 
And  by  designing  sorcery 

Made  me  forget  Yvonne  — 


And  lose  her  in  this  happy, 
Inconsequential  crowd; 

Feeling  in  silence  with  Pierrette 
What  Pierrot  sings  aloud. 


PIERROT  GIVES  AN  ACCOUNTING 

T  AM  rich,  but  not  in  gold, 

Very  young  when  she  is  by: 
In  her  absence  then  am  I 
Very  old. 

Old,  so  old  that,  in  eclipse, 

My  desire  begins  to  freeze: 
Then  come  kisses  —  velvet  bees 
On  her  lips. 

Redder  lips  there  never  were, 

Thawing  frozen  passion  through, 
Until  swarming  kisses  do 
Warm  the  air. 

With  what  rapture  and  desire, 

Is  my  vagrant  fancy  filled ! 
Burning,  where  my  veins  were  chilled, 
What  sweet  fire! 

Heart  to  heart  and  hour  by  hour, 

Never  a  marauding  bee 
Cherished  such  a  treasury 
In  a  flower. 


[16] 


Wayward  hair  as  dark  as  jet, 

Blue  eyes,  tender  as  the  dawn, 
In  a  gown  of  snowy  lawn, 
Thrills  Pierrette. 


PIERROT  PUZZLED 

'T^ODAY  my  fancy  roams  the  fields, 

-*•     Where  daisies  grow, 
And  what  each  witching  petal  yields, 
Is  fain  to  know. 

She  loves  me  or  she  loves  me  not, 

Does  Columbine?  — 
Pierrette,  the  fickle,  has  forgot 

Poor  me  and  mine. 

Ah !  how  shall  some  few  sous  be  made 

To  flatter  them? 
Could  debts  with  kisses  but  be  paid! 

Each  kiss  a  gem! 

Today  my  fancy  roams  the  fields, 

Where  daisies  grow. 
She  loves  me  —  loves  me  not.     Which  yields? 

Which  scorns  Pierrot? 


[18] 


PIERROT  IN  LODGINGS 

T  LOOK  at  my  room, 
•*•  And  my  life  narrows  down 
To  the  need  of  a  broom, 
For  my  garret  and  town. 

The  house-tops  are  gray 
From  this  garret  of  mine, 

But  much  harder  than  they 
Are  the  souls  —  to  define. 

Oh,  as  drab  and  as  dark 
As  my  own  garret  floor, 

They  appear  in  the  park, 
So  remote  from  my  door ! 

But  my  garret  is  high, 

And  it  looks  over  all, 
Commanding  the  sky 

And  a  view  of  the  mall. 

In  luxurious  cars 

They  loiter  around, 
Who  may  yet  see  the  stars 

From  a  hole  in  the  ground. 


Since  the  hole  must  be  deep, 
Still  the  digging  goes  on, 

Though  half  the  world  sleep 
Till  the  break  of  the  Dawn, 

Fear  keeps  some  awake, 
Who  will  sleep  in  the  end, 

And,  dreaming,  mistake 
The  Foe  for  the  Friend. 

But  the  Friend  will  arise 

And  the   Foe  will  come  down, 
When  the  Janitor  spies 

My  garret  and  town. 


Ji£\ 

•*«>' 


[20] 


PIERROT  THE  DERELICT 

/CERTAINLY  curious 

^-^  Are  our  penurious 

Selves  —  and  absurd 

Ways  of  a  bird, 

In  his  love-making; 

Aching, 

And  breaking 

Hearts  and  forsaking 

Columbine,  dear  to  us, 

Pierrette,  so  near  to  us, 

With  no  more  reason 

Than  is  in  treason! 

In,  out  of  season 

Wooing, 

Pursuing 

This  light-of-love  —  and  then 

Others  through  bog  and  fen ; 

Miring, 

Desiring, 

Suddenly  tiring; 

Groping  and  stark 

Daft  and  repeatedly  shown  to  be  blind 

Moles  of  a  kind; 

Blinking 

And  winking, 

Chaffing 

[21] 


And  laughing, 
Until  trouble 
Seems  like  a  bubble 
Blown  of  delight, 
Or  like  a  white 
Wisp  in  the  dark, 
Time  out  of  mind, 
Time  out  of  mind! 

Cheery 

And  merry 

As  oaf  or  a  faery 

Fetch  on  a  spree, 

Are  we  —  and  free ! 

Scaramouche,  Harlequin, 

Ugly  as  sin, 

Forcing  a  grin 

Through  thick  and  thin; 

Hazy 

And  lazy 

As  some  idle  daisy. 

Pipe  Pantaloon, 

Looking  on  life  like  the  man  in  the  moon! 

Soon  —  very  soon, 

Ere  we  are  laid 

Folded  away, 

Will  come  a  day, 

Or  night  of  reckoning! 

[23] 


Pixies  are  beckoning 

Over  the  hedges, 

Over  the  ledges, 

Tripping 

And  skipping; 

Trying  to  say, 

As  plain  as  day, 

What  is  the  way, 

Happiest  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid, 

Man  with  a  maid. 

Never  was  wooing  done, 
Or  such  pursuing  done  — 
Saving  the  elves  — 
As  by  ourselves! 
Poverty,  haunting  us, 
Daunting  us, 
Flaunting  us, 
Seems  always  wanting  us 
To  be  conventional. 
Is  it  intentional 
That  we  are  shirking 
Duties  and  smirking, 
Instead  of  working 
Six  days  in  seven? 
This  side  of  heaven, 
What  is  in  store  for  us? 
Where  any  shore  for  us? 

[23] 


Or  any  oar  for  us?  — 

Recklessly  trimming 

Sails  —  and  then  swimming 

Round  and  about, 

Giving  a  shout, 

Ghostly,  no  doubt, 

Ere  we  go  down,  down,  down, 

In  sight  of  Town ! 

Who  would  behave 
So,  but  a  knave  — 
Thinking  to  save 
Hardly  another 
Derelict  brother 
From  such  a  grave, 
Low,  leaky  grave? 


[24] 


PIERROT  APPRAISES  HIS  FRIENDS 

T  TUMBLY  our  names  have  come  to  live, 
•*•  •*•  Like  some  desire 

That  the  cold  world  must  needs  forgive  - 
Shadows  of  fire. 

Our  names  are  but  as  Harlequin, 

As  Columbine, 
Or  Scaramouche,  whose  gargoyle  grin 

Is  most  divine. 

Pierrette?     Shall  not  the  whole  world  round 

Still  love  her  well, 
After  the  years  lose  heart  —  and  sound 

The  passing  bell? 

Upon  the  altar  of  her  own 

Frail  self  is  laid 
Shyly  this  gift  —  the  giver  grown 

Somewhat  afraid. 

When  my  curbed  passion  is  becalmed, 

May,  for  all  time, 
Her  elvish  grace  not  be  embalmed 

In  gracious  rhyme? 


[25] 


May  she  not  be  forever  dear, 

Heroic,  vain  — 
Something  exquisite  as  a  tear, 

Shed  of  disdain? 

Sharing  with  Columbine  the  crown, 

In  our  poor  crowd, 
Her  dream  of  riches  and  renown 

Is  to  be  proud. 

Pierrette!     It  turns  my  vision  gray, 

To  muse  and  know 
That  presently  must  come  a  day 

For  her  to  go. 

She  shall  have  gone  from  us  and  Rome, 

But,  seen  afar, 
Shining  in  spirit,  may  become 

The  evening  star. 


[26] 


PIERROT  MAKES  A  SONG 

T7ILLED  with  coquettish  art, 
•*•     Blue-eyed  and  witty, 
She  of  the  fickle  heart 
Is  void  of  pity. 


She  of  the  frosty  air, 
Whom  love  amuses, 

Being  so  very  fair, 
Chills  ere  she  chooses. 

Who,  given  such  a  choice, 
Would  not  be  chosen? 

Who,  knowing  her,  rejoice 
Not  to  be  frozen? 

Pierrette  or  Columbine? 

Which  has  the  vision 
Still  to  hold  me  divine, 

Or  in  derision? 


[27] 


THE  STRICKEN  PIERROT 

OURGEON,  cut  deep 

Into  my  soul; 
Put  me  to  sleep 

And  make  me  whole. 
Repair  and  rinse 

My  soiled  desire ; 
Lance  —  lance    the    sins, 

Burn  them  with  fire. 

Surgeon,  cut  deep 

Into  my  heart ; 
As  the  knives  creep, 

Find  the  bad  part. 
Purge  me  of  lust, 

Fickleness,  doubt, 
Falsity  —  just 

Take  despair  out. 

Surgeon,  cut  deep 

Into  the  breath 
My  faith  must  keep, 

Even  in  death. 
Cut  down  my  pride 

Close  to  the  sod. 
Dead  .  .  .  Say  he  died 

Playing  with  God. 

[28] 


THE  HOME-COMING  OF  PIERRETTE 

XT7HOSE  foot-fall  is  it  on  the  stair? 
**     What  sweet  white  spell 
Is  laid  like  perfume  on  the  air, 
Where  we  — we  dwell? 

A  dear  hand  hovers  at  the  door: 

The  gods  begin 
To  open  heaven  more  and  more : 

Come  in  —  come  in ! 

Since  morning  has  she  been  away, 

Whose  absence  makes 
Each  moment  longer  than  a  day 

That  never  breaks. 

Ah  me!  that  she  should  ever  fail 

To  gladden  all 
The  poor  place,  like  a  nightingale, 

At  evenfall! 

Blinded  by  star  dust  in  our  eyes, 

Do  we  regret 
Our  home  is  very  near  the  skies? 

Pierrette,  Pierrette! 


[29] 


PIERROT  AND  PIERRETTE  AT  THE 
WINDOW 

\\7  HAT  though  we  shape  no  mighty  thing, 

In  word  or  deed; 
Nor  sing  as  organ  voices  sing, 
Hymning  a  creed! 

Good-will,  Pierrette,  to  all  the  crowd, 

Is  something  still 
Reserved  for  us  to  hum  aloud; 

To  all,  good-will ! 

Our  windows,  facing  toward  the  sun, 

Are  dim  and  small ; 
And  our  own  vision  from  each  one 

Is  all  in  all. 

Searching  above  and  under  ground, 

Our  fancies  grope, 
Only  to  learn  what  may  be  found 

This  side  of  hope. 

What  wonders  haply  glorify 

The  other  side, 
Where  lurking,  veiled  from  mortal  eye, 

The  heavens  hide! 

[30] 


THE  PROTEST  OF  PIERROT 

T    IKE  harsh  bells  tolling  in  a  trance, 
•*-'  War  is  declared! 
Pierrette,  the  happiness  of  France 
May  not  be  spared ! 

Think  of  sweet  bleeding  France  —  and  all 

The  joy  to  come, 
Being  defeated :  —  and  the  pall 

On  hope  and  home ! 

Home  —  home,   Pierrette,  for  us  at  least, 

Who  waited  long, 
And  who  had  put  aside  the  feast 

To  hear  the  song ! 

War  is  declared!  Versailles  ablaze! 

The  world  is  bared! 
God!  but  the  great  nights  and  the  days 

Love  had  declared! 


PIERROT  SERENADES  INVISIBLE 
VERANDAHS 

T  T  NDER  the  moon, 

Softly  a  song, 
Only  heart-long, 
Being  a  croon, 
Floats  in  the  air, 
Seeking  a  fair 
Woman  somewhere, 
Under  the  moon. 

Still  are  the  stars, 
Shining  above  — 
Still  and  as  cold 
As  buried  love, 
Are  they  tonight. 
What  of  guitars! 
Or  any  lute ! 
All  being  told, 
She  remains  mute, 
Somewhere :    and   quite 
Still  are  the  stars. 

Chilled  in  my  heart, 
Unspoken  words 
Become  a  sigh, 
Like  frozen  birds, 
[32] 


Fashioned  to  fly, 
Under  the  sky. 
Does  anything 
Remain  to  sing, 
Or  to  aspire, 
Even  in  part, 
To  the  desire 
Chilled  in  my  heart? 


[33] 


ENIGMA 

TT  7HY  is  Pierrette  more  fair 

*  *     Than  Columbine? 
Why  has  her  dusky  hair 
Been  so  divine? 

Why  are  her  speaking  eyes 

Blue  as  the  deep 
Wells  digged  in  Paradise, 

Covered  in  sleep? 

Why  does  her  slightest  word 

Mean  to  me  more 
Than  the  apostle  heard, 

Off  the  far  shore? 

Who  can  say  what  she  is? 

Angel  or  elf? 
Perhaps  my  Nemesis?  — 

Being  herself. 

She  is  a  mystery. 

Would  I  could  tell 
Whether  she  means  to  me 

Heaven  or  hell! 


F34] 


PIERROT  DISPOSSESSED 

OOMETHING,  in  evil  guise, 

Baser  than  Baal, 
Taking  me  by  surprise, 
Sought  my  betrayal. 

Something,  of  evil  look, 

Harkening  after 
Pierrette,  stole  in  and  took 

My  gift  of  laughter. 

Spying  our  candle  light, 
Something  came  straying 

Like  a  thief  in  the  night, 
Pierrette  waylaying. 

Ah!  was  it  Harlequin, 

Whose  necromancy 
Sufficed  to  let  him  in 

And  take  her  fancy? 

From  me  the  villain  stole 
Love  —  and  professing 

Poverty,  took  the  sole 
Thing  worth  possessing. 


[35] 


Fool  to  ransack  the  sky, 
Seeking  a  sonnet, 

Instead  of  ways  to  buy 
Pierrette  a  bonnet ! 


[36] 


RECONCILIATION 

\T7HEN  she  came  back,  my  heart  had  found 

The  secret  spring; 

The  gates  of  heaven  made  no  sound, 
In  opening. 

When  she  came  back,  a  needed  song 

Fell  from  the  sky, 
Like  a  spent  eagle  shot,  but  strong 

In  death  to  fly. 

When  she  came  back,  the  April  world 

Made  itself  heard, 
Like  thunder  on  a  flower  hurled, 

Or  on  a  bird. 

Dawn  —  and  the  sable  butterflies, 

So  black,  so  black! 
Were  as  a  rainbow  in  the  skies, 

When  she  came  back. 


[37] 


PREMONITION 

PIERRETTE  and  I  went  fishing, 

Down  on  the  Seine  one  day, 
And  wasted  time  in  wishing 
For  good  luck  —  on  the  way. 

The  bait  was  not  inviting; 

Or  else  the  guiding  powers 
Forbade  the  fishes  biting, 

For  hours  and  hours  and  hours. 

I  shudder  at  the  shocking 
Things  said  and  done  afloat, 

But  for  the  fear  of  rocking 
A  little  cradle  boat. 

Upon  it  musing,  thinking, 

Night  found  us  hand  in  hand: 

The  silly  stars  were  winking 
Before  we  came  to  land. 


[38] 


OMEN 

PIERRETTE  has  gone  to  Bergamo; 
•*•     The  skies  are  overcast ; 
And  on  her  track  is  blown  the  snow, 
As  by  a  phantom  blast. 

Pierrot,  with  half  a  life  to  live, 
And  with  no  heart  to  sing, 

Remains  for  her  but  to  forgive, 
In  Paris  shivering. 

She  —  she  who  once  was  like  a  lark, 

Trailing  a  star,  has  flown 
Into  the  silence  and  the  dark, 

And  left  Pierrot  alone. 


[39] 


PIERROT  MOURNS  THE  DEATH  OF 
PIERRETTE 

A  H !  was  the  soul  of  Cain 

More  deeply  shaken, 
At  the  red  dawn  of  pain, 
Or  more  forsaken? 

Ages  or  hours  ago, 

Was  it  the  sighing 
News  came  from  Bergamo? 

Pierrette  was  dying. 

She  who  had  meant  so  much, 

Not  to  me  only, 
But  whose  dear  voice  and  touch 

Made  life  less  lonely. 

Ages  or  hours  ago, 

Was  it  the  hurried 
Message  from  Bergamo 

Said  she  was  buried  ? 

Much  had  she  been  alone, 

Gentle,  forgiving, 
Rapturous  in  her  own 

Wonder  at  living. 

[40] 


Placid  and  pale  her  brow, 
Jealousies  banished; 

Nothing  else  matters  now  — 
Pierrette  has  vanished. 

Deep  in  my  heart  a  drouth, 
Parching,  discloses 

Cinders  —  and  in  my  mouth 
Ashes  of  roses. 


[41] 


PIERRETTE  IN  MEMORY 


PIERRETTE  has  gone,  but  it  was  not 
•*•     Exactly  that  she  died, 
So  much  as  vanished  and  forgot 
To  say  where  she  would  hide. 


To  keep  a  sudden  rendezvous, 

It  came  into  her  mind 
That  she  was  late.     What  could  she  do 

But  leave  distress  behind? 

Afraid  of  being  in  disgrace, 

And  hurrying  to  dress, 
She  heard  there  was  another  place 

In  need  of  loveliness. 

She  went  so  softly  and  so  soon  — 

Sh !  —  hardly  made  a  stir ; 
But  going  took  the  stars  and  moon 

And  sun  away  with  her. 


[42] 


PIERROT  WRITES  HIS  EPITAPH 

TV/TINE  was  to  hurry 
No  passing  bell, 
Having  no  credit 
In  heaven  or  hell. 

Nor  mine  to  worry 
And  droop  and  mope 

Over  the  siren 
Shadow  of  hope. 

Ring  from  the  steeple 

This  epitaph: 
Pierrot  saw  through  them, 

And  died  to  laugh. — 

Saw  through  the  people 

Who  seldom  smile ; 
And  made  her  happy 

A  little  while. 


[43] 


MRS.   BOBBLE'S 
TRAINED  NURSE 

BY 
GEORGE  FOX  TUCKER 

Author  of  "  A  Quaker  Home  "  etc. 

Have  you  a  sense  of  humor?  Mr.  Bobble  had, 
which  was  all  that  saved  his  disposition  when  his 
home  was  invaded  by  a  stiff  and  starched  tyrant 
in  a  pretty  white  cap.  If  you  have  ever  had  a 
trained  nurse  in  your  home,  you  should  read  this 
book  in  order  that  you  may  laugh  in  retrospect  at 
the  things  which  seemed  almost  tragic  at  the  time. 
If  you  have  never  had  a  trained  nurse  in  your 
home,  you  may  be  sure  you  will  have  one  some 
day,  and  should  read  it  in  order  that  you  may  laugh 
while  you  are  able. 

If  you  are  a  trained  nurse,  you  should  read  it 
in  order  that  you  may  govern  with  understand 
ing  the  bewildered  and  sometimes  rebellious  sub 
jects  of  your  most  potent  scepter  —  the  clinical 
thermometer. 

When  we  read  this  book  in  manuscript,   we 
laughed  so  hard  that  we  could  only  stop  when  the 
doctor  threatened  to  send  for  a  trained  nurse ! 
I2mo,  Cloth,  $1.00  net. 

At  All  Bookstores 
ROBERT  J.  SHORES, 

PUBLISHER, 
1977  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


BY  ARTHUR  J.  SHORES 

How  much  liberty  should  a  man  allow  his  wife  ? 

Has  woman  ever  established  her  claim  to  the 
possession  of  a  soul? 

Should  doctors  be  prosecuted  for  experimenting 
upon  their  patients? 

Does  the  practice  of  the  law  destroy  the  moral 
sense? 

Do  lawyers  make  the  best  judges? 

Are  men  more  open  and  above  board  than 
women? 

These  and  many  other  questions  are  discussed 
in  "  The  Penny  Ante  Club  "  in  humorous  fash 
ion.  This  is  distinctly  a  man's  book  and  one 
which  will  be  enjoyed  by  any  man,  married  or 
single,  whether  or  not  he  has  ever  "  sat  in  "  at  a 
game  of  Penny  Ante. 

$1.00  net. 

At  all  booksellers  or  direct  from 
ROBERT  J.  SHORES, 

PUBLISHER, 
1977  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  It  was  borrowed. 


REC'D  ID- 

DEC  07 


Form  L9- 


PUBLISHER, 
1977  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


PS      ariffi-th,- 
3315    Loves  and  loss- 
G875  1 OG  of  Pi 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  000  925  844  3 


PS 

3513 
G875  1 


